Walking Amongst Strangers
by NoiseTank13
Summary: A young mans cozy, unperturbed life is shaken as he suddenly is unwillingly taken on a journey.
1. Chapter 1

**Authors Foreword: Only the OC belongs to me. I do not support the IRA, or any related terrorist organisations in any shape or form, flames regarding Original Characters in my fic should be sent in my email where they will be properly ignored. I'm sorry if I sound defensive, but I have had bad experiences with people unwilling to see writers make characters interact strongly with the main characters, because it's Out of Character.  
  
I personally believe this OoC business, is horseshit, especially if the author is trying to make a serious fic. If for any reason you believe that a character is Out of Character, and you don't like it, _tough._ I won't do a damned thing to change it. I will try to have characters stay in character as much as possible, but there will be OoC circumstances, mostly humor, but some are also serious.  
  
There is no yaoi, and there is no yuri. Sorry folks. Romance, yes, but only with the OC and a rather unimportant character in the GG universe. Hint, you don't play as her at all.  
  
I'm writing this story because I like Guilty Gear, not for the whim of anyone. You don't have to like it, all I want is feedback, and the occasional praise would be nice as well, as well as well-thought out constructional criticism, and any character history/GG plot line inconsistencies, please point them out, because _I know_ I am going to have some, and anything grammar related is greatly appreciated.  
  
I'm sorry if I sound like an ass. I'm a nice guy really, I'm just tired of idiots saying omg, jam would never act like that, too ooc which makes this crap!!!111  
  
Hopefully you guys are different.  
  
  
Oh, and thanks goes out to Igatona and Kaiser Ryouga II for pointing out the glaring flaw in my other fic, Chloroform.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**_Name: Rufus Shackler  
Height: 6'4''  
Weight: 124 lbs.  
Birthday: May 20  
Blood Type: O  
Race: Human/Unknown  
  
  
_Subject is an unknown mechanic in The United Republic of Ireland. Although not of Irish descent, all that is known about the subject is his uncanny use of Magic.  
  
While having the ability to freely use Magic without outside aid requires attention, his genuine lack of enthusiasm about the world around him renders what could be a serious concern, harmless.  
  
Regardless of his abilities, his lethargy makes him a minor threat. We assign the subject with a Risk Rating of D.  
  
  
  
**For once, I wish Lady Luck wouldn't try to cut my throat.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**_It was a calm, partly cloudy day in Twelve Pint, under the Galloway mountain in southeast Ireland. The beaches were calm, the land was green with grass. In short, if one was to give it a casual glance, it would have appeared to be virtually untouched during the Holy War.  
  
Once you got past the pretty scenery, and the happy lives of the Irish that lived there, there was political turmoil. During the Holy Way, Ireland had many small wars, the more publicised one was the acquisition of Northern Ireland from the British by an alarmingly large force of the Irish Republican Army, which was believed to have been disbanded in the year 2010.  
  
As soon as the IRA managed to kick out the British from Northern Ireland, it had a series of civil wars, all between the IRA and the NIP, the New Ireland Party, until 2073, when the Perfect Gear was assembled. Fearful of the Gear, the IRA and NIP lowered down their arms, and combined to make a democratic/republican state, and together formed the URI, the United Republic of Ireland. When a country suddenly attacked another country using Gears in 2074, Ireland withdrew all troops from various points of the world and barricaded the island, effectively shutting off all contact from all countries.  
  
It finally opened itself up, after one hundred and one years of seclusion, after an emissary from the Holy Order came, and informed them of the status of the world.  
  
During the century old hiatus from the world, Ireland had established a stable political structure, economy and society, until after the Guilty Gear tournament, when old, bitter feuds began to erupt again, reminiscent of the IRA and NIP. The Ireland Caretakers are against a rebel faction of the URI, the Ireland Usurpers, who wish to militarise Ireland. The Caretakers argue that in doing so will alarm other countries, and they will have to deal with veteran armies, while the Usurpers counter that Ireland will be crushed once the countries recover from the Holy War.  
  
None of this means anything to the general populace, whose long confinement in peace and prosperity has left them carefree and lazy.  
  
And Rufus Shackler, mechanic of eighteen years of age, was no different.  
  
Born by foreigners who disappeared without a trace, Rufus was in an orphanage, raised by a gentle, but firm, maestress, until an event made him forgo a steady job at the orphanage to be a mechanic, where he discovered his Magic abilities, and his almost Einstein-like quality of knowledge of machinery. He currently is the head mechanic of Rumby's Auto Shop and Pub.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_  
  
The sounds of a ratchet dominated the air around a small garage in a small, podunk town called Twelve Pint. The roads were not paved, the largest building in town was the General Store. Kids ran around in the dirty, muddy streets kicking a worn, black and white checkered ball, and the air was damp with the smell of the recent rain, and the aroma of burning wood, either from fireplaces or from the metal barrels in the alleys. If one was from the 20th or the 21st, and from any old fashioned town, they would feel right at home.  
  
At the current age and time, though, any ordinary citizen out of Ireland would find this like an alien world. Didn't really matter what they think, this was his home, and he would know no other.  
  
Well, your engine is pretty much rotted to the core, Gully. a tall, rather scrawny man said from under a century old pickup. Look's like your Jitterbug is finally going down for the count. he pulled himself out from under and sat up, grease and oil smeared across his face.  
  
Sorry Gully.  
  
Gully, an old man in his sixties, sighed. Figures. No hope, huh? he asked mournfully. Rufus shook his head. Nope, not even me can fix it now. I can buy it off you.  
  
Gully looked like he wasn't paying attention, as he stared at the peeling, rust coloured pickup. Finally he spoke, I reckon so. How much would she fetch?  
  
A hundred dublins. Rufus answered truthfully. The only use the pickup would have was to be scrap metal, or a venting object for those troubling times for Rufus.  
  
Gully shook his head, not surprised at the pitiful low amount of money offered, yet grieved at the same time.  
  
Very well. Can I take something for me?  
  
Rufus shrugged. Sure, whatever you need.  
  
Thanks, Rufus.  
  
Rufus bristled.  
  
Gully, you know better than to call me that.  
  
Gully laughed mournfully. Sorry, m'boy, force of habit. It was a well-known fact that Rufus hated his first name, he always thought of an ugly name, that only pertained to ugly, prissy boys born with the silver spoon in their mouth_.  
  
_Shackler, m'boy, thank you for your help. Gully said, as Shackler got up and went to the cash register, where a woman was busy putting on makeup, or talking to God-knows-who on her cellular phone. Shackler long gave up on convincing her to do her job, and grudgingly did the work for her.  
  
Not a problem, Gully. Shackler said, as he withdrew four shimmering blue slips of paper, and headed over to Gully.  
  
A hundred dublins. Sorry about this, Gully.  
  
It's not a problem boy, Jitterbug has given the Gullies a hundred years of good service, guess it's time to put her out of misery.   
  
Shackler only nodded, and Gully went over to the pickup, and patted the hood.  
  
See you, Jitters. he said softly, and turned around and walked out the garage.  
  
Shackler felt rather bad for the old man, and he felt bad for the pickup too. A lot of times he hated feeling bad for inanimate objects like vehicles, and cushions, but that's usually made up for feeling good about fixing ancient cars and lighting the faces on some old person. He was told he was extremely gifted in the mechanics department, and he believed it. He was also told that everyone was lazy and clueless. Didn't matter, as long as people had crusted, old vehicles, he was making a decent living.  
  
Of course, sometimes, late at night, he felt the need to roam, like something was pulling him. He usually sated this feeling by walking the huge, expanding fields, the moors, and has carefully navigated mires. Most of the time, however, he preferred staying where he was, where nothing was bothering him, and the only concern of his is living to see the next pay check.  
  
He lifted a rather heavy wrench, looked at the pickup, and swung the wrench hard into the side door of the pickup, where it went CLANG! and a huge imprint was left on it.   
  
Metal was malleable still. Good, the pickup was a bargain then. He made a note to dismantle it in the morning tomorrow.  
  
Ah, hey! a boyish voice made Shacklers head turn.   
  
he asked, in a flat, uncaring tone.  
  
A rather young man was scratching the back of his head, dressed in a red, blue, and white striped shirt with a ripped sleeve vest, and a red bandanna. He looked ridiculously out of place compared to how Shackler himself dressed, in torn, faded grey overalls, stickball cap pulled down almost over his eyes, with a worn teal shirt.  
  
You still open?  
  
Shackler looked at the clock. It was five minutes to closing time, and he had half a mind to tell this guy he was wrapping things up, but hell, why not? Not like he was missing much any ways, rugby season was over, all that was left was recycled showings of some game called soccer, and he was pretty sure Alistair wouldn't mind a late customer.  
  
Yeah. Whaddya want? Shackler drawled, grabbing a towel and started to rub his hands, grease and oil coming off, like fresh blood.  
  
Really? Hey man, thanks! the kid said cheerfully. I'm having some problems with my motorcycle, keeps making this awful grind when I start it up.  
  
Motorcycle? What model?  
  
  
  
For some odd reason, Shackler suddenly had an idea of overcharging this git.  
  
Harley Davidson Year 1987.  
  
Shackler grinned.  
  
Yeah right. A cycle of that vintage would be worth more than half of Ireland.  
  
The guy looked indignant, and he stomped his foot.  
  
Wanna see? he challenged.  
  
Shackler shrugged, turned around to grab his toolbox, and turned around, and did a double take. The same guy was there, except he had a large cut mark on his left cheek, his clothes were a little worn and faded, and his motorcycle look a lot different. He raised an eyebrow, and went over and knelt by the cycle.  
  
It's a Plesskin 700, man. he said, grinning smugly.  
  
the guy asked, blinked, and looked down.  
  
Oh...OH! Yeah, I know, a joke, a joke. he said, breaking into a nervous laugh, not entirely unpleasant, but a new sound compared to most other people.  
  
Yeah, pretty good one too, not a lot of people know about Harley Davidson, Shackler said, opening his tool box, and withdrew some sort of pipe with a knob at the end. Hell, if you had one, you wouldn't have to worry about anything really, everyone will suck up to you like nobody business.  
  
I bet. That a narchet?  
  
Shackler nodded. Yeah. You know mechanics?  
  
A little. the guy shrugged, and wiped his face. His voice was less cheery now, a little empty, but aside from that it didn't really change.  
  
Where you from?  
  
Uh, England. But I'm different, I'm not a bloody bastard!  
  
Shackler looked up. Why are you so defensive?  
  
Um, I heard Ireland didn't much like England...?  
  
Shackler blinked. News to me.  
  
The kid opened his mouth, then changed his mind and started to laugh nervously again. Shackler had a feeling the kid was fleeing from something, mentally shrugged and went back to probing the engine.  
  
What's your name?  
  
Ahhh, Axl.  
  
  
  
Axl Low. Axl said, scratching the back of his head again, smiling nervously. Shackler grunted. Nice name, better than mine, any ways.  
  
What's yours?  
  
  
  
Ah. You have a last name?  
  
  
  
Axl nodded faintly then looked down. How's it going, Shackler Rufus?  
  
Shackler groaned, and Axl laughed. I just kid man, Rufus your first name?  
  
  
  
_CLANK!  
  
_Something rolled out of the exhaust pipe, and Shackler leaned over and picked it up, and looked mildly surprised.  
  
First time I ever saw bullets inside a motor before Shackler said, bemused. He looked up at Axl. You say your from England, what are ya doing here?  
  
If the question caught Axl off-guard, Shackler would have eaten his welder. If anything, Axl almost expected the question.  
  
Came here to look for someone, Axl answered quickly, then laughing again.  
  
Shackler said dryly. He looked at the clock. Five o' clock. He turned towards Axl, opening his mouth, when Axl answered,   
  
Shackler blinked, genuine surprise on his face.  
  
I haven't asked anything yet. he said slowly, furrowing his eyes and concentrating on Axl.  
  
Of course! Sorry, sorry, Axl said quickly, palms facing toward Shackler. What were you going to ask?  
  
Shackler waited a while before asking his question.  
  
There's a pub I always go to other than this one, wanna go? Shackler asked.  
  
Axl thought about this for a few moments, before replying,   
  
Shackler got up, and was about to put his tools away, when Axl said Ah, keep your wrench handy on you.  
  
Shackler looked at Axl. This was one helluva weird fellow.  
  
My wrench?  
  
  
  
Shackler blinked, then put his wrench inside his pants pocket.  
  
  
  
Just in case... Axl said, nervously shrugging, Ah, you know, a car accident, or something.  
  
Shackler agreed warily. The two walked out of the garage, and Shackler closed the door.  
  
Wait here... Shackler muttered as went to the front register where the secretary was currently reading a magazine. Axl nodded, and stretched.  
  
_Woowhee..._ Axl thought. _I have a lot of work to do...  
  
_Shackler came back, looking slightly amused.  
  
Alright, we're officially closed. You can stay at my place for till mornin', come on, I'll take you for a drink. Shackler said.  
  
Axl grinned. Sure thing man.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Goddamn. Tried Mission 50 of the Mission mode in Guilty Gear X2, blinked, and I lost. That's just scary. Any ways, thanks for the reviews, which was a lot more than I actually expected. Now I only worry about letting you guys down .  
  
Yeah, I am truly sorrow for coming off as an ass.  
  
A little rant about Zato-1. What kind of name is Eddie to give a shadow demon? Is it like Eddie Munster? Kind of, anti-climatic, but that's just me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**The pub, Dog and Bull, was located in the centre part of Twelve Pint, and was remarkably well built considering the surrounding areas. Twelve Pint, was, essentially, a podunk town. No one much knew about it, nor did anyone much care about it if they did know about it, except the citizens.  
  
And no one would miss if it was sent burning down to the ground, along with the people.  
  
  
~~**~~**  
  
  
Captain Anderson!  
  
The boy stood at attention, left arm pointing down, with the right arm intersecting it at the elbows, in the form of the salute. The older, more experience man, garbed in white clothes, in fact, everything about him was white: white hair, white skin, grey eyes, white shoes, it goes on. The one thing not devoid of colour was a chain that served as a necklace, and a black cross dangled down on his chest. Ronald Anderson was a Captain of the Holy Order, something he knew, but never felt. He felt, outdated, and was one of the few who knew Kilff Undersn personally. Nevertheless, he was outdated in his opinion, and was looking forward to his retirement after this mission.  
  
he said, in a feeble voice.  
  
Our mission parameters just came in from Paris, the subordinate said, then laid down the papers in front of Anderson.  
  
Thank you. God grace thee.  
  
God grace thee as well, Captain, the subordinate said, saluted again, and left. Anderson picked up the folder, and opened it. Attached to it was a photo, and three pages of a briefing. Carefully taking them out, he took a look at the photo.  
  
A rather young boy was looking rather surly, hair matted down as if wearing a hat for too long. His eyes show a dull intelligence, of someone not quite stupid, but not quite knowledgeable of the world around him. His eyes were also unique, one seemed to have two different colours, and the other was just plain blue.  
  
He laid the photo down on the table on and began to read the mission and to his dismay, found it to be extremely short.  
  
  
_ Captain Anderson,  
  
The subject is believed to have contacts with the Ireland Usurpers, which are a menace to the society of Ireland, as ordered by the Ireland Caretakers a few days ago. We have reports of a suspected car-bombing in the capitol being contemplated, and we are striving to investigate this. In the meantime, we must have this subject under our custody for his suspicious contacts to. We have also attached two coded papers for the Graced Ky Kiske's eyes only, he must see them, regarding Zepp's latest actions. God grace thee  
  
_Anderson laid down the letter and pondered it. The mission briefing was obviously rushed, which was unlike Paris, and it just sounded like a complete waste of time. Had he sunk so far in doing officer work?  
  
But, as he thought about it some more, he realised that the easier the mission was, the faster he was going to retire... Maybe move to Ireland himself. He heard about it's virtually untouched beauty, and the thought of living until the last of his days in a green land, a stark contrast to most of the world, appealed to him greatly. He leaned forward and hit a button, where a woman's voice greeted him immediately.  
  
Good evening, Mr. Anderson, what can I do for you?   
  
Hello, Artemis. Please contact the Holy Order superior in Ireland, and put him on for me.  
  
Yes, Mr. Anderson.  
  
A few minutes passed, and all Anderson could think of was sleeping in his warm bed, with not a worry on him.  
  
Hello, Captain. a gruff voice sounded on the intercom.  
  
Hello. We have an assignment for you.  
  
the gruff voice said enthusiastically.  
  
I am forwarding you the mission parameters, with one small change. Instead of 24 hours to complete this, you have 12.  
  
Yessir. God grace thee suh.  
  
God grace thee as well.  
  
Anderson sat back, and let the wonders of technology scan the papers and the photo. He wondered a bit about the boy. Even though he looked like he was at a funeral, something about him just didn't send Anderson the feeling he was a threat, just some typical, unfazed youth. He felt a little bad about the boy, being branded an of a terrorist group was just as much as a death sentence. But there were plenty other people who would gladly accept death, so Anderson felt a little better knowing that death was actually a luxury compared to some people. Anderson had enough on his plate without thinking of any people... Still...  
  
Sorry kiddo... Anderson said to the picture, which just finished scanning. The picture just stared him back, and he threw into the trash next to him. He then rested his head in his hands, and started to think about where the best fishing spot was on Ireland.  
  
  
~~**~~**  
  
  
Private Jakob Rawmer yawned as he fought sleep, so far, in a losing battle of willpower. Being an AA gunner was so far, been less than stellar than advertised on the flyer around Dublin.  
  
Stupid Captain Bates.... can't even walk around with that cane of his... I'm bigger... than you...  
  
Hey! Jakob  
  
  
  
  
  
Jakob mumbled distractedly, then sat up.  
  
Yes this is Jakob, what is it Lexy?  
  
Got an unidentified airship heading your way!  
  
Ah, finally, some damn action round here.  
  
Good luck?  
  
... Was that a question?  
  
  
  
Bah damn woman. Didn't have anything in the T&A department, annoying as hell, and generally hard to get along with.   
  
Still, he'd do her.  
  
He opened up a general broadcast frequency, which any ship could pick up, and said in a bored tone, Unidentified airship, please identify yourself.  
  
A static was the only response, until a rather suave voice came on.  
  
Hello there, we are a cargo ship destined for Dublin. We are the Amethyst Rose.  
  
Give me your readings please.  
  
  
~~**~~**  
  
  
Give me your readings please.  
  
Johnny paused at this, surprised at the operators efficiency, but recovered.  
  
We have been attacked by pirates, and our reading cloaker is a bit faulty. I'm afraid we cannot accurately display our readings.  
  
The operator yawned. Sure, k, go on ahead. There was a pause, then a rather audible _clonk!_ broadcasted towards Johnny. He looked towards April who was piloting, and shrugged.  
  
I'm gifted with the silver tongue, though, in my case, it may be gold. he chuckled, when an alarm went off.  
  
Johnny blinked and lowered his glasses so he can see what was going on. What's going?  
  
Anti-air batteries have locked on... 5....9....11.... 15 total locks! a crew member yelled.  
  
April yelled back towards him. The operator must have set off the defences!  
  
Johnny mumbled. I suppose we have to do emergency manoeuvres then...  
  
  
~~**~~**  
  
  
Sure enough, Jakobs head was resting on a panel that made the automated defences of Ireland suddenly went off. The three settings were Neutral, Fire on Command, and Fire at Will, the latter being on unregistered and airships with similar designs being branded as hostile. It goes without saying that Jakobs days of being an AA operator are numbered.  
  
  
~~**~~**  
  
  
Shackler and Axl made their way through the somewhat crowded streets, mostly drunkards, children playing soccer, and gossiping females. Dog and Bull was a popular spot for everyone, and while it was popular, the more seedy people hung out at Alistair's pub, which was also located at Shacklers garage. Shackler liked Dog and Bull because of the classic rock music they always play, some of it he knew, some he didn't, but he liked listening to it nevertheless.  
  
Wow, some place, yeah? Axl said, looking at it. Aside from the General Store, Dog and Bull was the largest building in town, was open almost all hours, and served some decent ale. Shackler nodded in agreement, and walked in.   
  
The place was worn, and not in the sense that it has not been used, the wood tile floor was shining dully, scuffled by years of chairs moving back and forth, shoes, and generally all around wear and tear. The lights were dim, there was a pool table in the corner occupied by two sheep farmers, and the bar was in the centre, a couple of televisions showing reruns of the previous years rugby tournaments nestled in the top corners of the building. Shackler motioned Axl to the bar ahead, when Axl pointed to the speakers above.  
  
Led Zeppelin? he asked.   
  
Shacklers face broke out into it's first smile that day.  
  
You know them?  
  
Practically lived with them! Axl chirped, And if memory serves, that's Kashmir, from the album Physical Graffiti, he said with a smug smile. Shackler just stared.  
  
Axl asked.  
  
Shackler shrugged and just grinned, Pal, you are the first person I know that knows of Led Zeppelin.  
  
Axl laughed. I know of more. Judas Priest ring a bell?  
  
Shacklers eyes widened as well as grinned,  
  
Just for the mention of that band, I'm buying you a drink. C'mon.   
  
Shackler walked and sat down at the bar, with Axl setting next to him to the left. A withering bartender walked over, with a drooping grey mustache and a receding hair line, walked over.  
  
Good evening gentleman, what may I serve you? he drawled.  
  
The usual Barley, Shackler said happily, Whaddya want, Axl?  
  
Axl scratched the back of his head.  
  
... Diet pop.  
  
Shackler choked back laughter, and Axl gave an embarrassed grin. Some other patrons weren't as kind as Shackler and laughed their heads off.  
  
Diet pop! Now that's a goody two shoes Brit for ya! one guffawed, and another fell to the floor. Axl just grinned.  
  
Ehhh... I kinda can't drink, Axl said. Promised my mother... he added. Shacklers eyes just lit up in mirth as he doubled over laughing.  
  
Ah, which reminds me, you are kind of young to be having alcohol, right, Rufus? Barley said lightly, a ghost of a grin playing on his lips. Shackler was still laughing but sobered quickly enough to utter a reply, Yeah, yeah, gimme apple cider then. Barley nodded, and moved away to get the drinks. In the meantime, Shackler turned his head towards Axl.  
  
You said you was here for someone, who? he asked.   
  
Axl grinned confidently. I was looking for someone who has the ability to use electricity at his will.  
  
Shacklers cheer turned to sudden cautiousness.   
  
You have any idea? Axl asked.  
  
I may... What do you want of him?  
  
Axl shrugged. I was just curious, I heard how powerful and wise he was, and how very protective he was of his family and how he saved-  
  
Axl, whoever said that was full of it, I am neither of tho- you son of a... he said angrily as he realised his error, and Axl just grinned like a maniac.  
  
Ah, he was certainly wrong about the wisdom part. Axl said, chuckling.  
  
Shut up.  
  
I just jest, truly. Axl said, stretching his back. Shackler turned his body forward, and accepted his cider from Barley.  
  
Alright, you found me. What do you want?  
  
It's... ah... complicated. Axl replied uneasily, taking a sip of his pop.  
  
Try me, I'm dying for some variety in my life, Shackler said caustically.  
  
Er, alright, I'm just here to warn you that the Holy Order is coming for you.  
  
The Holy wha? Shackler asked, adjusting his cap, and looking at Axl.  
  
The Holy Order. You know, the international police.  
  
I bet. What do they want? Shackler asked, humouring the Briton.  
  
Ahhh... barkeep! Axl called to Barley. Can you change the channel to the nearest news channel? I need to see something...   
  
Barley shrugged, grabbed a broom from behind the counter, and adjusted the knob on the TV closest to them. Some drunk patrons protested, but were silenced by their mugs. Axl turned his attention to Shackler, who was preoccupied by his drink, and nudged him.  
  
Smile, you're on TV, Axl said, a tad more solemnly than his normal, airy-fairy self. Shackler took a quick glance at the television, took another drink, turned face-forward again, then snapped it back to the television.  
  
The hell? Barley, turn the volume up!  
  
The look on Shacklers face was priceless, and if the situation wasn't so dire, it would have been hilarious. But to Shackler, seeing his picture next to a burning rubble of car on television wasn't the kind of image to come home to. Barley fumbled with the controls, and the female reporters voice broke through.  
  
... the perpetrator of this heinous act is this man, Rufus Shackler, as seen by countless eyewitnesses, by diving under the car of U.R.I Prime Minister Bartholomew Dibbins, and setting off a time bomb. We suspect him to be highly armed and dangerous. The motive for this act of terrorism is unknown, though the man was wearing black and orange, the colours of the Ireland Usurpers, who have been recently labelled as terrorists' and no longer considered a party. The Holy Order based in Dublin, Ireland, has released a statement that the suspect may also be a Gear, and we ask for everyone's aid in capturing the suspect. Tom, back to you...  
  
Ahh, you see...? Axl said, when Shackler jumped off the stool, and whirled around to face Axl.  
  
Who the hell are you? Shackler growled. A line of static suddenly jumped off his arm. Several patrons sober enough to recognise the warning signs got up and beat a hasty retreat out the door. Barley ducked behind the counter. Axl held up his hands.  
  
Whoa whoa man, I'm not an enemy! Axl said hastily waving his hands. I came to help you!  
  
Shackler grumbled. You know a hell of a lot. Who are you?  
  
I'm Axl Low, always have been, always will be. I'm here to help!  
  
Shackler remained unconvinced. Can you prove it?  
  
Axl did his routine scratching the back of his head.   
  
Shackler snarled. Thought so. You ain't getting me!  
  
Axl snapped to attention. Wait, wait! I can! Just wait!  
  
Shackler growled and sprang forward. Axl leaped off the bar stool, did a roll, and withdrew his sickle and chains from his belt, and stood up. Shacklers wrench was imbedded into the counter, and he jerked it free.  
  
Man! Wait! Axl pleaded. Shackler paid no heed, and charged again, swinging the suddenly dangerous looking weapon in his hand, and swung hard down towards Axls face. Axl had barely time to block it with the chain, and the sudden impact jarred Shacklers wrist. Taking advantage of Shacklers sudden paralysis, Axl twisted the chains, locking Shacklers hands together, throwing the chain around him, throwing the sickles up and over the rafters, and pulled down, leaving Shackler totally helpless in mid-air.  
  
Axl said hurriedly. I'm not here to hurt you! Your life is in danger! We need to get you out of here!  
  
Shackler asked irritably.  
  
Because you are more help alive, than dead. Axl said through gritted teeth. Shacklers piercing eyes glared at Axl, before going dull.   
  
he said sullenly.  
  
One question, why didn't you use your magic?  
  
Magic? Oh, it only comes on in self-defense, never offence, least for me...  
  
Whatever. Ok. Come on. Axl smiled grimly. He released the chain and sickle, and Shackler came crashing to the floor.  
  
Where do we go? Shackler asked absently, throwing his chains down, and Axl quickly put it back around his belt. Shackler is currently having the feeling which you just know that this was all a dream, a horrendous dream.  
  
Axl said nothing, and looked at the clock. He raised his hand, and slowly withdrew a digit within each second interval.  
  
5.  
  
Shackler could hear the distant roar of something... Large.  
  
4.  
  
3.  
  
It grew louder, it sounded like an airplane...  
  
2.  
  
1.  
  
Oh no...  
  
There was a roar, a deafening sound explosion as the airplane flew low over the Dog and Bull, rattling the ceiling, and shaking glasses off the tables. Shackler looked at Axl, shock and fear suddenly marring his otherwise pan-face.  
  
You don't mean... he trailed off.  
  
Axl nodded, and laughed. Yeah, that's our ride. You have your wrench handy, don't you?  
  
  
  
Good, you're gonna need it. Come on.  
  
Axl turned and ran out of the bar, and Shackler trotted after him.  
  
_Unbelievable..._ Shackler thought.   
  
_What next, air pirates? What the hell is going on? What the hell is a Gear? What the hell?   
  
_He ran out of the bar and looked and saw Axl waving to him.  
  
This way! he yelled, and disappeared into an alley.  
  
What the hell...? Shackler thought aloud.  
  
  
  
**  
  
  
Authors Notes: I can't write action scenes worth a damn. If anyone could give some pointers, I would gladly appreciate it.**


End file.
